


spoken words like moonlight

by milominderbinder



Series: maia's shameless fic a day in the month of may [16]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Emotional, M/M, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 14:02:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1651220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milominderbinder/pseuds/milominderbinder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Fiona’s the one who finds him, sat on the porch steps, chain smoking and chewing on his fingernails, too scared to go inside.</i> </p><p>Mickey thought deciding to propose would be the hard part.  As it turns out, working up the nerve to actually <i>do it</i> is what trips him up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	spoken words like moonlight

Mickey had never understood marriage.

Of course, it’s not like he ever had the best examples of what it _was._ Growing up, the only married people he’d even known were his parents.  They’d been married since they were eighteen, though they already had three kids by then; how long they’d been together would have been impressive, if it weren’t for the fact that they hated each other.  All they did was fight.  Terry would hit their mom so hard she was bruised for days, their mom would get high and smash Terry’s stuff, sometimes take off for weeks at a time and while she was gone Terry would parade other women around, fuck them in the living room like it was some kind of victory over his wife.

Mickey sometimes thinks he might be a psychologist’s wet dream, because he’d witnessed all of it, time and time again.

Of course, when he was eleven, his mom had died, and that had been the end of the cycle.  That had been the end of everything Mickey knew about marriage, too.

As he grew up, marriage grew to have other, even more troubling connotations.  Forget his parents constantly screwing each other over; their abuses were the least of his worries.  Three weeks after his eighteenth birthday, Mickey married Svetlana, and marriage became a way to _survive,_ but a way that hurt, was stifling and painful and had jagged edges even under the softest of light.

For a while, Mickey had figured that would be it, for him.

Then, Ian.

Again.  Ian _again,_ but Ian more, this time.  Ian who was sick but still _Ian,_ Ian who Mickey never stopped wanting to help, never stopped wanting to love, even though his life would have been so much easier without it all.

He remembers Ian’s words to him.   _Not to me._  It’s just a piece of paper - _not to me._

He remembers another piece of paper.  His twentieth birthday present from Svetlana - divorce papers.  She wanted child support, and to keep living in the Milkovich house, but legally - he was free.

He’d never told Ian about it, though.  He hadn’t wanted to give him any ideas.

Only now, it’s Mickey who’s having ideas.  Because Ian’s mostly fine these days, stable on his meds and back to his usual self, working towards his GED and researching new career options and going to therapy on time every single week.  But still - accidents happen, relapses happen.  Mickey doesn’t want to stand up in a church in front of a thousand people and wax lyrical about how Ian’s _changed his life,_ even if it’s true, but he does think that maybe, having the legal benefits that come with marriage would be good - would be _safe._ If Ian ever gets sick again, Mickey wants to be able to visit him in the fuckin’ hospital whenever he wants, wants to be able to make decisions for him, if Ian ever can’t make them himself.  He also - well.  He also wants to make Ian happy.  It’s gay as shit, but it’s always been true.  Ian Gallagher’s happiness means more to Mickey than pretty much anything else in the world.  And he knows Ian’s always dreamed of a certain kind of life.  Not candles and roses and diamonds, that’s never gonna suit either of them and they’re both fine with it, but after his shitty weird childhood, Ian’s always just wanted _stability._ He’s told Mickey that, before.  Ian wants to get married and buy a crappy apartment and stay there forever and get a job he likes and stick at it his whole life.  It’s not much to want, really.  And Mickey can make a couple of those things come true, if he tries hard enough.

Mickey wants to make Ian happy.  He also wants to make _himself_ happy.

And that leads him to where he is now; standing outside the Gallagher’s front door, sweating bullets, with a cigarette between his fingers and a ring weighing down his pocket.

\--

Fiona’s the one who finds him, sat on the porch steps, chain smoking and chewing on his fingernails, too scared to go inside.  She doesn’t look that surprised to find him there.  It’s been two years, now, and they’ve kind of reluctantly bonded.  Have had to, through a slew of Ian’s highs and lows and doctor’s appointments and insurance bills and medication cocktails and side effects and relapses and _everything._ They’re the two who love him most; they’re the ones who’ve been dealing with it all.  They’ve spent a lot of late nights silently smoking on the porch together.

Which is why it doesn’t surprise Mickey when she finds him out there and just takes a seat by his side.  It’s the middle of the night and winter, so it's cold out, and she’s just wearing her tiny pyjama shorts and a thin cardigan, which she pulls tight across her body, shivering a little.

He watches her toes curl into the cold wood of the steps.  Waits a moment, then shrugs out of his jacket and throws it unceremoniously over her shoulders.  He’s wearing a big sweater and jeans, and his nerves are enough to heat his whole body through anyway.

“Thanks,” she says quietly, shoving her arms through the sleeves of his coat.  Then she steals the cigarette out of his lips, takes a drag.  He lets her.  Just sits there, staring up at the night sky, the few stars he can see through the bright light of the streetlamps.

For a minute, they smoke together, and don’t speak.

Fiona’s the one to break the silence.

“So what is it?” she asks, then takes a drag of the cigarette.  “He off his meds again?  Getting weird side effects?  Shit, you didn’t get the insurance bill for his last appointment already, did you?  I have no idea how we’re gonna pay that.”

“Nah,” Mickey quickly assures her. “None of that shit.  It’s nothing - nothing fuckin’ _bad.”_

“Oh,” she says, passes the cigarette back to him, curls her fingers inside the sleeves of his coat.  “What, then?  What are you doing out here?”

Mickey counts stars.  They make him think of the freckle constellations on Ian’s body.  He’s counted those freckles a hundred times.

He counts stars until his heart stops racing from Fiona’s question.  Then, slowly, he reaches into the pocket of his jeans, and pulls out the ring.

It’s just a shitty thin, plain silver band.  He got it from the pawn shop in exchange for a broken old shotgun.  Still, it’s the most important thing he’s ever held.

“Was thinkin’ of poppin’ the question,” he says.  His voice is hoarse.  He quickly clears his throat, takes a long pull of the cigarette while Fiona stares at the ring in shock.

He counts stars for a minute, again.  Then, he’s brought back to earth by a hard slap to his shoulder.

“Ow!” he complains, but Fiona’s grinning so wide he doesn’t think she can even hear him, giggling under her breath with disbelief.

“Oh my _god,”_ she says, hits him again, then throws her arm around his shoulder and hugs him close.  Mickey smiles, despite himself.  “Mickey.  That’s fuckin’ _awesome_.  Fuck.  Ian’s gonna be so happy.”

“You ain’t gonna tell me it’s a bad idea, then?” he checks, trying not to shuffle too uncomfortably out of her hug.  “That we’re too young or whatever, that I’m bad for him?”

“Maybe if this was two years ago,” she admits, resting her head on his shoulder.  “But, now?  I mean, it’s been two years and it’s been fuckin’ _hard,_ but you’ve been with him, through all of it.  There’s no way we would’ve gotten through all this without you.  Paying for his meds and making sure he gets to therapy, looking after him when he was low - you’re good to him, Mickey Milkovich.  I never thought I’d say that, but I can’t even picture Ian with anyone else, by now.  And you’re twenty, and Ian nearly is too - I don’t think that’s too young, considering how much shit you guys have been through.  And I _know_ I don’t even know the half of it.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, quietly.  For a moment his eyes flash with memories he wishes he could erase forever; fucking Svetlana on the couch, Terry’s face when he said the word _faggot,_ the fight in the Alibi.  But he blinks, and it’s all gone, and he’s just sat with Fiona’s arm around him on the steps of the Gallagher house, smoking in the cold night.  “Well, that’s over now.”

“Right,” she agrees.  “Fuck, Mickey, you make him so happy.”

Mickey doesn’t know how to respond to that, because it fills him with a slow kind of warmth that he doesn’t know how to explain.  He thinks about Ian - his wide smile and kind heart and his crazy fucking bravery and the way he hates ketchup with eggs and the way he holds Yevgeny close to his body with a smile and the way he flicks his hair out of his eyes with one finger when he’s annoyed and the way his toes are fucking freezing when they press against Mickey’s legs in bed at night and the way his mouth hangs open like an idiot when Mickey rides him and the way he brushes his teeth so carefully twice a day because he’s scared of getting a cavity and the way he rolls his eyes when Mickey reminds him to take his meds.

For a moment, Mickey forgets where he is, because everything about Ian Gallagher is perfect and Mickey so, so doesn’t understand how _he’s_ the one who gets to be with him.  The fact that _he_ can make Ian happy.  It doesn’t even comprehend, but just the thought of it makes Mickey know he’s doing the right thing.

Then Fiona drags him back to earth.

“Hey, come on,” she says.  She flicks the cigarette butt into the snow and then stands up, grabs his hands and pulls him up too.  “I wanna watch you ask him.   _Now!_ ”

Mickey rolls his eyes, but lets her hold his hand, pull him into the house.  Where Ian is waiting.

**Author's Note:**

> for the fic a day in may, and inspired by the anon prompt on tumblr: _mickey asks fiona for Ian's hand in marriage but ian thinks mickeys cheating him 'cause he's being all weird_.... only i kinda didn't stick to that prompt at all, sorry! hope you liked it anyway.....
> 
> posting this as its shitty unedited first draft self, bc it's already like, two days late, and i have a headache. meh. 
> 
> send me more prompts: [mickeymilk](http://mickeymilk.tumblr.com).


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